


What He Knows About Sacrifice

by Distracted



Category: Leverage
Genre: Broken Bones, Concussions, Gen, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, OT3, Surgery, Whump, punctured lung
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27160292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: Set after the Carnival Job. Eliot was pretty banged up. Here's my take on what might have happened. Much comfort, because lord knows he deserves it and it's not really shown on screen.Or Eliot collapses after the job with a concussion and punctured lung. Parker and Hardison are there for him as he recovers.
Relationships: Alec Hardison & Parker & Eliot Spencer
Comments: 40
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm willfully ignoring the whole sexy nurse bit because you don't get knocked out clean for several minutes then go and have sexy times later the same day. I know, TV magic and all that but it's frustrating. This starts just after they leave the Carnival and are heading back to the van.

Chapter One

The tilt is correctable if he squints just right. He can work around it, and the pain, like his skull is being squeezed in a vice. It's the nausea, the ringing in his ears he's having trouble correcting. He can't even take a deep breath, because he knows it'll light his ribs up like fireworks on the fourth of July. 

His lip is still oozing blood and the new penny taste is only making him feel more like hurling. There's a new ache in his shoulder, his jaw, the bottom of his spine and every step he takes jars his body without mercy. A stone rolls under his foot and he stumbles, a grunt of effort leaving him as he tries to catch himself but it's no good, he just doesn't have the energy or co-ordination. He's falling, a swirl of blue sky the last thing he sees before the darkness takes him. 

He comes around slowly. Being awake _hurts_ , flesh and bone protesting the abuse. There are hands on him, one set he knows, the calluses familiar and comforting, and another he doesn't, cool inside gloves. He'd startle at that, if he had the energy, but he doesn't, so he settles for prizing one eye open. 

Parker is kneeling by his head, hands on his cheeks, holding his head steady. Her eyes are filled with worry. "Hey, Eliot, you're okay," she says, in a way that makes him think she's said that exact same thing before, maybe even more than once. 

He blinks at her, licks his lips and tries to find words but there's an ache in his chest that won't let them pass. He coughs once, _hard,_ and watches blood dot her face as it leaves his lips. It's wrong, so wrong, bright red blood on her skin, and he wants to wipe it away. Each inhale leaves less room for the next and it's the most terrifying thing he's felt in a long time. 

Medical terms swirl around his head and a face he doesn't know looms into his sight. _Hemothorax,_ he hears and flinches, because that means a chest tube, and they _fucking hurt._ The way his heart is pounding makes his chest ache more and he's desperate for a clean breath. Stars or fireworks or maybe explosions swirl though the edges of his vision, the bright colours only making the looming darkness all the more deep. 

The paramedic is talking to him but he can't get a hold of the words; they slip from his understanding like bubbles, insubstantial, impossible to hold. He knows what's coming anyway. This isn't his first chest tube and right now he can't think of a more depressing sentence. 

Liquid pain runs up his arm as someone moves it to above his head. He blinks, and there's an oxygen mask on his face which helps, and hands touching his ribs, which doesn't. Parker's fingers tighten on his face, thumbs rubbing comforting circles on his aching temples. He flexes his free hand, nails digging into the gravel under him, trying to find some way of grounding himself against the coming agony. 

Hardison takes his hand, grip hard enough to bruise. He can't see the man, but he knows his touch as well as he knows Parker's, is glad of the connection, especially when the hacker shifts so his leg is brushing his hip, free hand gripping his shoulder. "We got you, man," he says. 

Cold metal parts his skin, leaving a line of burning agony behind and he has no control over the little hurt sounds that leave his mouth. Something drips in his face and for a second, he thinks it's raining until he sees Parker's face and realises she's crying, silently. He wants to do something about it, reassure her that he's okay, like he has before but he doesn't have the air or the words. 

"Sir, I know it hurts," the paramedic says, "but I need you to stay still for me." 

He's trying, but it's hard, chest muscles twitching in a way he can do nothing about. His body is beyond his control. Even an iron will can only go so far when the flesh it rules starts to rebel, and he's been past that point for a while now. More metal and plastic invades his body, his whole world distilled down to the agony in his ribs and the cool relief of his friends' hands on him. 

A gloved finger probes the hole between his ribs and it almost breaks him, rips a keening cry from his lips that tastes of copper and salt. 

"Almost done," the paramedic says. "You're doing great." 

He knows that's a lie because he can feel himself fading, the darkness hovering at the edges of his eyes swooping in to claim him. He wants to fight but it's too much, his reserves depleted, and he goes willingly.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two __

__

__

He wakes up, slow and hazy, in the way only good drugs or good booze can do. There's something on his face and he lifts a clumsy hand until his fingers bump plastic. An oxygen mask… The pieces click slowly into place when he forces his eyes open and finds himself blinking at a muted puke green wall. He's never seen that colour outside of a hospital and wearily starts his internal checklist to figure out what broke this time. 

There's a deep nagging ache in his ribs that the drugs aren't quite covering. It speaks of surgery in a way that dries his mouth and he decides he's not quite ready to figure out that little mystery yet, skipping to his head, which feels like someone has replaced his brain with sawdust and whatever they put in plushies. He's dealt with it before, knows all too well the signs of a pretty bad concussion and grunts, knowing he's got a chunk of down time coming his way. The ribs alone would see to that, but with a brain injury on top, he's in no great rush to find his next fight. 

He's been down that road one too many times for God and Country, learned from the mistakes, knows that asking for a raincheck isn't the sign of weakness he'd always thought it to be. There's blood enough on his hands without adding his team's, without adding more innocents', because he can't move fast enough or think quick enough to save them. 

There's a cast on his right wrist and he can vaguely remember punching something that wasn't flesh. He flexes his fingers carefully, feeling a stab of pain across the palm of his hand and grunts in annoyance. _Boxer's fracture,_ he thinks. It's not his first and probably won't be his last. They're an occupational hazard when you punch things for a living. 

Muted aches cover the rest of his body, but there's nothing screaming for his attention so he turns it outwards, taking stock of the room. There's a small sofa to one side with coats piled on it, and a bottle of violently orange soda on the equally small table. He feels his lip quirk at that, for some reason. The sight of it prompts something in his brain and he realises that he's thirsty. 

He turns his head towards the bedside table and has to close his eyes against the sudden wash of dizziness. It makes his stomach rumble unpleasantly and he swallows the spit that floods his mouth. He's spent enough time with broken ribs to know that vomiting would be a really bad idea. 

The door creaks open, soft footsteps that he knows as well as his own coming towards him. He risks cracking an eye open and regrets it when the light stabs his brain like a harpoon. His stomach rolls again and he swallows uncomfortably. 

"Eliot?" Parker says. "You're sweating. Should I call the nurse?" Her fingers skate over the bed, brushing his arm, and he feels her pick up the call button. "What can I do?" she asks, and there's a note of panic in her voice that he hates hearing. Hates even more that he's the cause of it. 

He licks his lips carefully. "Hey Parker," he grates out and has to clamp his mouth closed again. _Fuck,_ he thinks. 

"Do you feel sick?" She settles on the chair next to the bed and reaches for his uninjured hand, careful not to catch the IV in his forearm. She probes his wrist, watching his face until he blinks in relief and she knows she's got the right spot. It's an old trick, a pressure point that helps nausea, and she can't quite remember where she picked it up. 

The door opens again and she feels the twitch in his muscles as he reacts to the sound. 

"Nausea again?" the nurse asks, and that sends a spike of something like fear through him because he absolutely cannot recall having nausea _before._

It must show on his face because Parker pats his shoulder gently. "You were really out of it," she says, which isn't a massive help. 

"It's very common in concussions," the nurse says as she unlocks the drug cart in the corner of the room. "I'm Jess, your nurse. I'll get you something for the nausea and in a little bit, if you feel up to it, I can get Dr. Emory to go over your injuries." 

She draws up a dose of Zofran and injects it into his IV. "Give it fifteen, twenty minutes and if it hasn't worked, we'll try something else." She makes a note on his chart and leaves, closing the door softly behind her. 

The nausea ebbs slowly and exhaustion creeps in. He realises Parker is still touching him, though it's switched from holding the pressure point to holding his hand and that makes something inside his chest twinge for a reason that has nothing to do with his broken ribs. 

"Don't you have something better to be doing?" he rasps. He's not sure what he wants her answer to be, because the company is nice but there's always going to be a part of him that equates being _hurt_ with being _weak_ and it wants to lick his wounds alone. 

She meets his eyes squarely and shakes her head, a tiny, perplexed frown between her brows. "No," she says and shifts to a more comfortable position on the hard seat. 

"Huh," he grunts and blinks. He's exhausted now that the nausea is gone and he knows it's par for the course, for a concussion, after surgery. 

"Sleep," she says but her voice is already fading out as he gives into the urge. He thinks he feels her press a kiss to his temple just before consciousness leaves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really really appreciate some feedback on this. It's my first Leverage fic and I'm not sure how well I'm nailing these characters. Let me know 😁


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say both thank you to everyone who's reading this and leaving kudos. I really appreciate it.
> 
> Also please forgive any weird formatting in these chapters. I've been writing in on my phone and as soon as I get on my laptop I'll fix it.

Chapter Three

Waking up again sucks. Either the pain relief has stopped working or he's smack between doses because he hurts, every inch of his body throbbing like a bad tooth, a flare of white hot agony over his ribs. It's dark and quiet and he's alone and all of those things remind him of nights he'd much rather not remember. Each third breath leaves him in a muted groan and if he could just find the damn call button, he'd use it, but it has to be in the floor and the way he feels that's about as much use as it not being there at all. He's cold too, the sheet and thin blanket offering scant warmth. He shifts a little, easing off his aching back, and feels his head spin at the movement. 

Headlights dance over the ceiling and he eyes them, wishing he was home, letting himself wallow in the self pity for just a moment before he shakes it off. _Buck up, man,_ he thinks. It's not like he hasn't been hurt before, even spent time in the hospital before but it _is_ different this time and he can't let himself think too much about that or the reason why the room feels so empty. Somewhere along the line with the team, he got used to chatter, to constant background noise and he misses it more than he's willing to admit. 

He shifts again and feels the nauseating tug of something in his side that's not meant to be there. A careful, skittering search of his body reveals three things; he's bandaged from hip to shoulder, the chest tube is still there and it's been joined by a drain sucking gods knows what into a bag clipped under the bed. _Explains why my ribs hurt so damn much,_ he thinks. He's also fairly sure he has a catheter but he can't bend enough to tell for sure. The IV in his arm itches, the tape holding it in place pinching his arm hairs. 

The door opens and he turns his head, expecting his nurse, but it's Hardison and he's carrying a bulging bag. "Umm," he starts, plainly unsure what reaction he's going to get, and pauses just inside the door. "If you don't want me here, man, just say and I'll leave this stuff and go." 

Eliot blinks, wondering if he's finally tipped over the edge and started to lose his mind. There's questions that he wants to ask but he's not even sure where to start. "What… How…" he grates out then just closes his mouth and conjures up the hardest stare he can manage. It's pretty weak, but it does the job. 

Hardison crumbles. "We mighta sorta bugged your room," he gets out in a rush, because unlike Parker, he knows exactly how big an invasion of privacy it is. 

Eliot stares, not fully convinced he heard the other man right. "You bugged my room?" He's really not sure how he feels about that, sifts through the emotions in his muddled head and decides he's too exhausted and cloth-headed and drugged to even start to get into it right now. "We're having a conversation about this later," he warns and Hardison nods. 

He'll take his lumps later but right now he's more concerned about the other man. There's not much light filtering in from outside but it's enough to see just how pale and pained he is, shadows under his eyes flowing into the bruises on his cheek, his temple. "You don't look so good," Hardison says, and drops into the seat next to the bed. 

"Yeah well I don't feel so good," Eliot snaps back, but it's lacking anything like his normal bite. Even to his own ears, he sounds worn out, pained. "How long have I been here?" he asks, because he's been trying to fit the scattered bits he can remember together but he has no frame of reference to fit them in. He's betting days rather than weeks, just based on how he feels. 

"Three days." Hardison and says, and watches something like shock ripple over his friend's face. "You…" _-almost died,_ is what he wants to say, but caution wins out. "You're pretty banged up, man."

"How bad?" Eliot asks, _meaning can I still operate?_ Because men like him rarely get to retire in peace. If they're lucky, they get a bullet in the brain and two in the chest and a shallow grave somewhere remote. If not, they die messy, in some foreign hell hole, tortured to death for any secrets still locked inside their head. 

"They didn't tell us much, because we're not family-" he stresses the word, because they are a family, just one built on something other than blood, like mutual trust and need, "but you have four broken ribs, a grade three concussion- and let me tell you, higher is _not_ better there- and a punctured lung." He wants to say more, but he stops himself, because the other man is shaking, what little colour that had been in his cheeks vanished. 

"Eliot, are you okay?" Hardison asks, reaching forward like he wants to grab the other man, but he doesn't want to make anything worse. 

_No I'm not,_ Eliot thinks. He's freezing, and the pain is fast reaching a peak he's not sure that he can deal with. He has a high pain tolerance - it's kind of a requirement, in the job he does, but there's a limit to what he can cope with and it's fast approaching. He feels dizzy suddenly, lightheaded and he can't stop shaking. _Shocky, you're getting shocky, man,_ he thinks and knows it should scare him more than it does. All he can manage is a vague stab of worry. 

"I'm calling for help," Hardison says and Eliot blinks in agreement. 

The room is full of people, all talking, most touching him and he wants to shy away from the invasion but all he can do is lay there and take it. He's lost Hardison in the crowd and none of the faces are even faintly familiar and something like terror washes over him until someone lays their hands on his cheeks. It's Jess, the one face he does know and he blows out a breath in relief. She's talking, and he fixes his attention on her, trying to understand what she's saying. 

"Eliot, we need to take you back to surgery," Jess says. "Do you understand?" 

"Yes," he says, and the flurry of activity changes as they get ready to wheel him out of the room. The bed jolts through the door and he grunts in pain. They spin the bed around to fit in the elevator and the last thing he sees before the doors swish closed is Hardison, shoulders hunched, face set with fear. 

The doors close, and he disappears behind them. 

_I never got to see what was in the bag,_ Eliot thinks, just before someone injects morphine into his IV and all coherent thought vanishes.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four 

When he wakes again, he's intubated, a machine breathing for him and that sends a spike of something like terror through him. His first instinct is to rip the tube out but soft restraints hold his arms, allowing him some motion but not enough reach to get at his face. It's too fucking much and he wants to fight, wants to obey the instincts written in him to the bone, but even though his mind is racing, his body is slow and sluggish. He hits the end of the restraints twice with his good arm before someone grabs his hand to stop him from doing it again. 

"Eliot!" Jess says crisply, "Look at me." 

He knows an order when he hears one and meets her eyes, years of conditioning meaning he can do little else but obey.

"Good," she says, and squeezes his arm in reassurance. "You're doing great." 

There's that lie again, because he's pretty sure he's never been less great in his life and he's been in some truly, _truly_ shitty situations in his time. 

"I know it's uncomfortable and scary," she says, tucking a strand of thick chestnut hair behind her ear. "And I know you're probably thinking, _yeah right, I bet you say that to all the boys,_ but it's true." She sits down in the chair next to the bed so she's not looming over him. 

He can feel his pulse starting to slow as he listens to her, lets her distract him from his body. The tube is still a massive intrusion, but he thinks he can bear it for just a little bit longer. 

"Drunk driver knocked me off my bike a couple of years ago." She flaps a hand. "They never found him and I spent six weeks in the hospital being put back together." A flash of remembered pain crosses her face before she blinks and it vanishes. 

Eliot hopes he never finds the man, because he's killed better people for less. The flare of rage takes him by surprise, but it's a symptom of the concussion and fades as quickly as it comes. 

"How about we set up some communication?" Jess asks. "One blink for yes, two for no?" 

He's pretty sure blinking is a bad idea but tries it anyway, feeling his head swim. He keeps his eyes closed until the darkness forces them back open. It's too much, with his eyes closed, remains him far too vividly of times he'd much rather forget. Maybe he'd be okay without the tubes or the restraints but all together it hits the big button inside of him labelled _really fucking bad_ in big flashing letters. 

"No good? Okay, squeeze once for yes, twice for no," Jess says, and lets go of his arm to take his hand. "Do you have any pain?" 

Two squeezes. He's feeling pretty well medicated and he's damn grateful for that. But he's still kinda cold and plucks at the blanket with his other hand, hoping she'll get the message. 

"Cold?" She nods. "Most patients are after a long surgery. I'll grab you some more blankets." She gently disengages their hands and crosses to the blanket warmer in the corner. It's not the same room as before and he's not sure if that's a good or bad thing. 

_A long surgery,_ he thinks as the words register and feels his pulse spike again. _What the fuck happened to me?_

She drapes the blankets over him, tucking them up around his shoulders. They're nicely warm and the chill slowly leaves him. She reaches for his hand again but he wants to try something first. 

It's hard, with one hand in a cast but he takes his time signing the word. _Hello._ It's a test, to see if she can read sign language and her face lights up. 

_Hello,_ she signs back. 

He pauses, feeling the strain as he pokes his damaged brain for the memories. It's been years since he last used sign language and it comes back to him more slowly than he'd like. The concussion probably isn't helping, and as much as he knows he just has to be patient and wait it out, he wishes he was healed and back to normal. 

_What happened to me?_ He asks, spelling the words out painstakingly. It makes his broken hand throb and he knows he's probably not going to manage much more for now. 

She sits by the bed again. "When you came in, you had some bleeding in your chest from the broken ribs. The surgeons fixed it but one graft failed and the bleeding started again." She smiles, gently, and pats his hand. "I know how scary this must sound but there's no reason why you can't go back to your normal life once you're fully recovered." 

_And the damn tube,_ he signs, gesturing towards his face as best he can. 

She frowns in confusion, then blinks as she gets his question. "Realistically, 24-48 hours to give your body a rest and chance to heal. Might be less than that though." 

He nods, then gathers his fading strength for one last question, shaping the words carefully. _Can you please take the restraints off?_ He signs and watches her face. He's not sure what will happen if he wakes again, still tied down but his nerves are already twitchy and he doubts it'll be anything good. 

She hesitates, then meets his eyes. Whatever she sees there has her reaching for the straps, slipping them off his wrists. 

_Thank you,_ he signs, broken hand cramping. He lets it drop to his side, feeling the pull of the drugs more keenly, and knows that he drifts for a while. He can hear her moving about the room, pen scratching as she scribbles notes on his chart, and the sound is comforting, like he's chilling on the couch at the office, listening to the others doing their thing between jobs. 

She clicks the TV on. It's showing a John Wayne movie, though he can't place which one, and he watches it, body lax under the influence of the drugs and blood loss. 

Someone knocks on the door and she crosses to open it, turning towards the bed after a short conversation that he can't quite hear. "Your friends are here, do you want me to let them in?"

 _No!_ He signs sharply, and she blinks at his vehemence, but nods and turns back to the door, body language turning apologetic. 

He closes his eyes against the rush of want, of loneliness that almost swamps him, bears the ache until it subsides, just like it always does. There's a difference between hurt and _vulnerable_ and right now he's the second, can't bear the thought of the people he loves seeing him in such a state. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that the stinging in his eyes is from everything he's been through and not tears trying to escape. He's surprised he even has it in him still to cry. He blinks, and one slides down his cheek, cool and sharp like the edge of a blade. 

He's survived things that would have killed other men. He can survive this. 

He knows he can. He just wishes it didn't have to _hurt_ so damn much.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bonus chapter because I'm trying to sleep and I couldn't get this scene out of my head. 🙄😂😂😂

Chapter Five

The hospital server takes Hardison less than thirty seconds to crack. He runs a search for Eliot's name, frowning as he sees the size of the file the search obediently offers up. It's big, big enough not to just be his current injuries and Hardison hesitates before he opens it. 

What he's doing is a massive invasion of privacy and he knows that. Another one, and one he's not sure Eliot will easily forgive but worry is eating them both alive and the nurses won't share any information. Ever since Eliot turned them away, he's been imaging the worst. Parker has barely spoken, spending her time alternating between slumped on the couch and obliterating locks in increasing inventive ways. 

He clicks, waiting as the file loads. It offers up xrays, photos of injuries and Hardison almost closes it there. It's way more information than he should have access to, because he knows just how closely Eliot guards his past and this file is blowing it wide open. He startles when Parker appears behind him suddenly, the plush hotel carpet muffling her steps. An x-ray pops up. _Must've clicked it by accident,_ Hardison thinks, and wants to close it, but he's transfixed, feeling like he's watching a ship go down but he can't turn his eyes away. 

He's no doctor, but he can spot the broken ribs, the fractured clavicle, the dislocated shoulder. For the first time in his life, he fumbles the mouse, clicking next when he means to click close. It's a hand xray and it takes him a second before he spots the multiple fractures in each finger, in the delicate bones. It sends a chill through him because there's no way the injuries were accidental. The breaks are too regular, too evenly spaced. Someone did it, took their time for maximum suffering and the intent behind the act turns his stomach. 

Parker winds her arms around him. "Poor Eliot," she says and Hardison nods. 

The xrays paint a devastating picture of exactly how much the other man has been through. And it's not even the _full_ picture, Hardison thinks, because there are ten or fifteen or twenty more xrays, not to mention various scan images that he has absolutely no intention of clicking on. Instead, he closes the current shot and brings up a custom program, typing his search terms and letting the search run. 

It pops up a chart and he zooms in, knowing right away that it's the wrong thing, a date, obviously hastily scribbled and incorrect, if the single line through it is any indication, on the first page meaning it got dredged up too. _Evidence of sustained torture including waterboarding and electric shock-_ he reads before clicking out of it. 

His stomach rolls at that, a wave of cold washing over him. There's a difference between knowing something and _knowing_ it and he's just strayed into the second category.

Parker's hands are tight on his shoulders, her hair tickling his neck as she leans forward to rest her temple against Hardison's. 

"He'd hate us seeing this," Hardison says. He knows, intellectually, that someone with Eliot's history wouldn't get away unscathed, but seeing it in black and white is another story altogether. It brings the injuries home and he vows that he's going to force the other man to take better care of himself, maybe try to convince him not to throw himself in quite so many fights. 

"Screw the file," Parker says, and stands, "Let's go and break into the hospital."


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Eliot wishes that he could sleep. He's on the downward slide with the drugs, the pain starting to creep up on him again, and he's desperate for some kind of escape. The TV is still playing old western movies but he doesn't have the attention span to follow them. The lights have been dimmed, and it's still dark outside. 

His new nurse walks into the room. He knows he's been told her name, but he can't remember it. It should bother him more that he can't. 

"Hi, Eliot," she says and starts running her checks, hands efficient but gentle as they pass over his body. She takes his hand. "How's your pain?"

He'd give it a pretty solid six right now and squeezes her hand that many times. He's also pretty sure it won't stay at a six for much longer which is the problem. Broken ribs suck but he's dealt with them before. It's the surgery, body protesting to the invasion, and the concussion which has pretty much flattened his defenses. 

"Okay," she says and makes a note on his chart. "Let me see if I can do something about that for you," she says, and gives his hand a quick squeeze before she leaves his room. 

He listens to the door close and shuts his eyes, poking his brain until it offers up a pleasant memory he can lose himself in, for just a little while. He's in his kitchen, pots bubbling away on the stove, putting the final touches on a pot roast for the team. He's already sent most of the sides in and is just finishing off the gravy. The potatoes are done and he calls for one of them to come- the hospital room door creaks open and the memory vanishes. 

"Eliot?" a voice he knows says hesitantly and the landslide of emotions he feels would have ripped the air from him if he had any choice in the matter. 

She's at his bedside before he can do anything and he closes his eyes, not wanting to see pity on her face. She touches his cheek, gentle like so few things in his life are and it almost undoes him. "Open your eyes," Parker asks and he's never been able to deny her for long. Her gaze is soft and sad as it takes in the tubes, the monitors, but it's for him, not _at_ him and he can cope with that. 

"Hi, Eliot," Hardison says from the other side of the bed. "We thought you might want some company." His voice is hesitant, like he's expecting to get kicked out and it makes something in Eliot's chest ache. 

Eliot knows that he should be furious that they've gone against his wishes but he just can't find it in himself, especially when she settles down in the chair next to the bed, resting her head on his good shoulder. There's no way it can be comfortable but she seems quite happy so who is he to judge? Hardison steals the bedside table, wheeling it over to the small couch and pulling out his laptop. The rattle of keys is like a lullaby, soothing and Eliot can feel his eyes getting heavy. 

He knows he probably won't sleep, but just having them close is a balm he didn't know he needed. 

“Please don’t send us away again,” she whispers and something about her tone hits him deep, touching old hurts.

The angle is awkward but he fumbles until he can take her hand, holding on tight. He still hates them seeing him like this, but her eyes hold no judgement as they pass over his body, just worry and sorrow and pain. He's not usually one for grand words but he wishes he could talk, wishes he could explain because not having a voice is slowly driving him insane. He'd try signing again but he's pretty sure neither one can speak it. That's something he's going to change, just as soon as he's able.

They both look up when the door opens and his nurse walks in. She stops, taking in the two interlopers and frowns. "You both can't be here outside of visiting hours," she says. 

Parker is on her feet in a flash, an angry flush on her cheeks, hands balled into fists at her sides. "We're staying," she says, voice firm but even. 

"I'm getting security," the nurse says and heads out of the door. 

"You do that," Parker snaps to her retreating back. 

Eliot watches her leave, pressing his casted hand gingerly against his side. The pain that was a six has crept up to maybe a seven point five. He realises he's clenching his jaw, biting down on the tube and has to force himself to stop. He feels like it hits him all at once, just how fucking uncomfortable he is. It's not just the wounds, it's the ET tube, the strap holding it in place, the IVs, the catheter. It's the longest he's been bed bound since his last major injury and his back aches from laying in one position for too long. He closes his eyes, counting to ten, wishing he could control his own breathing because a breathing exercise or two wouldn't go amiss right now. 

He's shaking again, but he knows what this is, even if he hasn't felt it in years. Normally he'd hold his breath, force his heart rate to slow and get control that way but he can't do that and he suddenly feels like he's choking, like he's not getting enough air even though the small, rational part of his brain still remaining knows that's physically impossible. 

_Panic attack._ He thinks it like it's a dirty word but he can't stop it. Stripped of all his usual coping mechanisms, he's helpless against it. The heart monitor beeps match his racing pulse, chasing each other, faster and faster. A thin, wavering thread of steel self control is all that stops him from ripping the tube out and as soon as he's thought about it, his good hand is rising towards his face. 

"Eliot," someone says, their hands on his cheeks, and at first he thinks it's Parker. He forces his eyes open to see a dark haired woman in a lab coat standing next to the bed. "Listen to me, we're going to try something," she says and turns off the vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter kinda didn't go quite where I expected 🤔😂
> 
> Thank you all for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. I really appreciate it and enjoy talking with you all in the comments. 
> 
> Any interest in a Parker whump fic after this one is done? I have an idea that won't leave me alone.


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

At least, that's how it feels, because the damn thing is no longer forcing air into his lungs. In fact, it feels like he can't breathe at all and he feels his pulse spike again, thundering in his throat like a hummingbird. He's not prone to panic- he can't be, spending his adult life running at situations most people would run _from_ , but it almost swamps him, dark waves of terror washing over him like they want to eat him whole. It lights up every self preservation instinct he has, makes him want to run but his body isn't listening to him anymore. 

"Get them out! I want them both in my office!" Dr. Emory snaps to the security guard, pointing at Parker and Hardison. Both look shell-shocked. Parker has her arms wrapped tight around her body, making herself small. Hardison can't tear his eyes away from the struggling figure on the bed, guilt and self-blame sharper than a knife as he follows the guard. 

"Eliot!" Dr Emory says, and pats his cheek. "Listen to me. You can still breathe. We've just changed the settings so the vent will help you rather than breathing for you. Deep breath in for me." 

It's an order and while his brain understands, the muscles in his chest seem to have gone on strike, cramped tight and he can't make them relax. His entire chest burns so much he feels like he's been dipped in acid, sand blasted, dragged down a gravel road until there's nothing but exposed nerves and bone left. It shouldn't be so damn hard. He's been breathing for himself for most of his life. His body knows what to do and yet no matter what he tries, he can't get enough co ordination to just _breathe in._

"Sats dropping," Jess says quietly. "Down to 89%." 

He feels hands on his face but his eyes are closed as he fights for some sort of control. Someone strokes his hair, fingers gentle as they comb through the strands and the feeling makes him want to weep. He's not sure he deserves gentleness, not sure he's worthy of it any more but maybe this is a kind of grace and it's okay to give into it, for just a few more minutes. 

"Okay Eliot," Dr. Emory says. "We're going to give you something to see if it helps. It's just a painkiller." Her hands brush his arm as she pushes the drug through his IV. 

A rush of warmth washes through him. _Thank you,_ he thinks, as the cramping in his chest starts to ease. The relief is enough that he can open his eyes, blinking against the painfully bright lights. He manages to draw in a shaky breath though it feels all kinds of wrong though the tube. He wants it out of his body more than he can remember wanting anything else right now. It takes him a few false starts but he manages to sign _take it out_ with hands that are still shaking. 

It's the only barest sliver of self control that's stopping him ripping it out himself. That sliver is eroding fast, and his hand jerks towards his face. He closes his eyes again, sending himself down into the small, dark place in his mind that he only ever visits in times of extreme duress, because each time he visits, he leaves part of himself there. Dissociation has a cost and it's parts of his already tattered soul. It takes him out of his body, separates mind from flesh and some distant part of him knows he's probably scaring the medical staff into a collective heart attack. He should care, but he can't quite find the energy. He's burned up his reserves, drained the tank dry on this one and it'll take him a while to put that right. 

There are quiet words passing over him but they float past, unimportant. 

"Bag him," Dr. Emory says. "Get me the kit. We're taking the damn thing out."


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

"Sats up to 95%," Jess says, one hand squeezing the bag, the other laid on Eliot's cheek. His eyes are open, but remote and it makes her want to shudder because she's seen that look before in some of her other patients, the ones shipped back after days or weeks of captivity.  _ Which is a nice clean word for torture,  _ she thinks and has to blink sudden stinging tears away. She's treated bad men before, murderers and rapists and drug runners, knows them. The man under her hands might not be free of sin- the scars on his body alone attest to that, but he's not bad and nothing will convince her otherwise. 

On the other side of the bed, Dr. Emory nods, the equipment she needs laid out neatly. Including a couple of syringes, filled with sedatives and paralytics just in case this goes wrong and they have to intubate him again. 

"Hey, Eliot," Jess says, and can't stop herself from stroking his cheek with her thumb. "Come back to us," she adds softly. 

He blinks, and emotion floods back into his eyes, his face. The dormant relaxation from seconds ago vanishes, replaced by tension. He's back in his body now, and by the frown on his face, it's not an experience he's currently enjoying. 

"Give us thirty seconds and we'll have the ET tube out of you, okay?" Jess says. 

Her thumb is still stroking his cheek, gloves soft against his skin. The gesture - or maybe the intention behind it - is comforting out of all proportion and he lets himself focus on it, pushing everything else away. He can take thirty more seconds. It's how he gets through any tough spot, by breaking it down and telling himself he can. It's mind over body, just like they taught him, way back when, when he wore the flag on his shoulder and believed he was making the world a better place. 

"Okay, we're ready," Dr. Emory says and sends him a reassuring smile. "Take a good deep breath for me and when I tell you, exhale. Ready?" 

He's been ready since he woke up with the damn thing in his throat. He gives her a tired thumb's up and sucks in the deepest breath he can manage, stubbornly ignoring the ache from his broken ribs. 

She deflates the cuff and tugs the tube out smoothly, keeping a careful eye on his sats. They’ve dipped a little, but it’s not enough to worry her, yet. 

He gags and coughs, bracing his ribs with his arm as the movement lights them up red hot with pain. His throat feels raw, abused and he swallows carefully as he manages to get the cough under control. The pain is nothing against the sense of relief he feels at having his body back. 

Someone slips a nasal cannula on his face and the cool flow of oxygen helps. He swallows hard against his dry throat. 

"Thank you," he grates out, because his voice is wrecked, but the words are heartfelt. His chest aches with every breath but it's not the first time he's had broken ribs, and it's not likely to be the last, given his line of work. 

"Glad you're back with us," Jess says, and hands him a cup of ice chips. 

He dumps a few in his mouth, wincing at the cold. "My friends?" he asks, and has to shove down the emotions that stirs hard. It's a stupid, groundless worry, but he can't help but think they'll see him differently, now they've seen him vulnerable.  _ Weak _ , his mind supplies.  _ Broken.  _

"They're in Dr. Emory's office. She wanted a chat with them," Jess says, "Do you want me to get them for you?" 

Every self protective instinct in him is screaming no. If it's bad, he doesn't want to know yet. But he's never been one to walk away from trouble, never, and he forces himself to nod.  _ Might as well find out,  _ he thinks, and shifts, easing onto his side. "Yeah, I'd like that," he says, softly. 

"Okay doke," Jess says, and tucks an extra pillow behind his back. 

It takes some of the ache out of his back, his ribs and he blinks his thanks at her. 

"Where did you serve?" she asks. 

It's the last thing he expects her to ask and he sucks in a startled breath that almost sets him off coughing again. "How did you know?" 

She shrugs, ponytail bouncing with the movement. "You vanished." Her eyes are full of sadness when she looks at him. "I've only seen three types of people do that. Abused kids, and I don't peg you as one, victims of domestic abuse, and I doubt your friends are beating you up, and soldiers."

"I can't tell you," he says softly. He's trying not to lie to her and she nods, once, accepting that. 

"Just… Don't let it drag you down. You deserve to be happy."

_ No, I don't,  _ he thinks instantly, because even though he caged the monster, it's still there, deep down inside of him. He's let it out before, and knows he will again, if the motivation is right. He's done unspeakable things and he knows where he's headed. The thought makes his eyes burn and he blinks, lifting a shaking hand to swipe his face. 

"I'll go and get your friends," she says and slips out, leaving him alone. 

It takes him longer than he'll ever admit to get the tears under control. It's the concussion and the drugs and the exhaustion, but some of it is purging, clearing out the stress and terror of the last few days and he's defenceless against that. They're silent things that slip down his face like rain and he aches under the weight of them. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"What the hell happened in there?" Dr. Emory snaps, pinning Hardison and Parker with a harsh glare. "I saw you sneaking in but he was doing better at first so I thought I'd leave you to it!" She drops into her chair, glancing belatedly at the security team. "Thanks, guys, you can go." 

"We're just a call away if you need us," the oldest says, and closes the door behind him with a little more force than strictly necessary. 

"What happened, doc?" Hardison scrubs his hands over his face, suddenly exhausted. "I've seen him do shit that would cripple anyone else." 

"Anxiety attack," Dr. Emory explains, rolling a pen between her fingers. "Was there any kind of argument between you? Anything happen that might have triggered it?" 

Parker glances at Hardison, brow wrinkled in confusion. "I had words with the nurse," she admits, and shakes her head. "But it wasn't that big of a thing. He says worse to us over the breakfast table!" 

"Sit down, guys," the dark haired doctor says with a sigh. "How much do you know about concussions?" 

They know the major symptoms, thanks to Eliot, and when to call for professional help. "Enough to do our jobs," Hardison says, knowing he's skating on dangerously thin ice if she gets curious about _what_ they do, exactly. There's a thin line between legal and _right._ The things they do are right, but they're not always legal and the last thing he wants is to be trying to explain the difference to a cop or two. 

"They don't just cause physical symptoms like blurred vision or a headache, they mess with the patient's emotional state too. They might experience mood swings, or sudden bursts of emotion." She flicks her gaze between their faces, hoping they understand what she's saying to them. "Your friend is emotionally fragile right now," she adds. "Small things that might not have bothered him before his injury might have a stronger effect now. It’ll go, as his brain heals, but it’s going to take time. We’ve also got him on a lot of drugs that probably aren’t helping.” 

Fragile is the last word either of them would use to describe Eliot; he's tough and brave and weirdly kind at times. They've seen him on his feet when other men would be down for the count, see him take blows that visibly hurt and keep fighting. No, fragile isn't the word at all but that's normal Eliot, not injured and concussed and drugged Eliot. The Eliot they're dealing with now needs something from them, a rare occurrence and Parker feels like she let him down. It makes something pinch in her chest, a bad feeling, and her eyes sting. 

"That's what happened to him tonight, isn't it?" Parker asks bitterly "I had a dumb argument with the nurse and it gave him a panic attack!" 

A knock on the door stops the doctor from answering. Jess pokes her head in. "Eliot wants to see his friends," she says, resting her shoulder on the door frame. 

Parker hunches in her seat, making herself small, and Hardison reaches over, taking her hand, chafing it between his own. Her fingers are freezing and he strips out of his hoodie, handing it over. “Put it on, mama.” 

She pulls it over her head, relishing the warmth, the scent of him surrounding her, and tugs the sleeves down over her hands. “Please, can we see him?” She’s not sure if he really wants to see her, after what she caused, and anxiety spikes through her at the thought of him sending her away again. He’d promised not to, but that was _before_ and she wouldn’t blame him if he’d changed his mind. Her fingers tighten around Hardison’s again. 

Dr. Emory watches them, seeing the tense line of worry, of fear, on their faces. She’s seen the same look on a hundred, a thousand other faces and while they may not be blood relatives, she can’t deny they’re a family. “Sure,” she says and stands. “Just keep it light, guys.” 

They follow Jess back to Eliot’s room. “Give me a sec,” Jess says, and slips into the room, intending to check on her patient. 

Parker skids to a halt outside of the door, forcing Hardison to stop too. “What if he’s angry with me?” Her eyes are burning and there’s a thick feeling in her throat that only ever happens before she cries. 

“He asked to see us,” Hardison says, patiently, pulling her in for a hug. “He’s not going to do that just to send us away,” he finishes, and feels his heart thump. He’s got Eliot pretty well figured out, but there are still hidden depths that surprise him at times. Still, he’s never seen the man be intentionally cruel, and getting their hopes up just to send them away would be more than that. “Come on,” he says and takes a deep breath, pushing the door open quietly. 

Jess is in the corner, grabbing supplies, and Hardison gives her a short nod, before forcing his eyes towards the bed. Despite his words, he’s honestly not sure what kind of reception they’re going to get. 

Eliot’s dozing, eyes closed, injured hand resting lightly on his chest. The stark lights make the bruises all too visible, and Hardison bites his lip at the sight. Some are shading into yellow and green, but the worst, over his cheekbone and temple and still dark and deep. He wants to cross to the bed, but he’s stuck, feeling the horror of watching the strongest man he knows collapse in front of him. He hadn’t been able to admit it, tells himself that he hadn’t had time to process it, but there was a part of him convinced they were going to lose the older man for good, on the side of some gravel road and the terror washes over him again. 

One of them makes a noise, and Eliot blinks, eyes opening slowly, relief and happiness shading into his gaze. “Hey,” he rasps, and it breaks the weird tension in the room. 

Parker drops into the seat next to the bed, arms wrapped around herself. “Please don’t send us away,” she says, and lifts her burning eyes to meet Eliot’s. “I’m sorry. Please let us stay,” she finishes, and there’s an echo of a much younger Parker in her voice, in her words, an echo of the one let down, _sent away,_ by too many people. 

It triggers every protective instinct Eliot has, overrides the pain, and he reaches for her, rough hand cupping her cheek gently. “Don’t be sorry, darlin’,” he says. “I’ll never send you away. Never.” There’s a rasp in his voice, but his words are sure and she leans into his hand, her fingers coming up to grip his wrist. 

“But I… you-” she forces herself to stop, to take a breath, frustrated because she can’t get the words out. “I’m sorry,” she says again, and finds the courage to meet his eyes, seeing honest confusion there. 

“What for?” Eliot asks softly, glancing at Hardison to see if the other man can help. 

“Dr. Emory said the argument with the nurse might have caused your anxiety attack, earlier,” Hardison gets out quickly, because even after the chat with the doctor, linking anxiety attacks and Eliot makes his brain do something weird. 

Eliot looks away, finding some spot outside of the darkened window to fix his gaze on, and his voice is remote when he speaks. “That- it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with you guys,” he manages, after a few false starts. “So don’t worry about it. I’m not,” he finishes, and blinks, fighting back a yawn. 

“What happened?” Parker asks softly, the big medical file they’d accidently seen filling her mind. She’s earned the right to ask, but that doesn't mean he has to answer, at least not now. 

“I can’t-” he starts, and shifts a little, wishing he didn’t feel so damn raw. “Ask me again, when I’m out of here,” he says. It’s not a story he wants to get into while in a hospital bed. If he’s going to tell it, he wants to be under the hot sun, with a bottle in his hand. 

“Okay,” Parker says, and holds out her other hand for Hardison. He crosses the small space, letting her pull him towards the bed, resting one careful hand on Eliot’s knee. The other man is blinking heavily, clearly exhausted. 

Jess crosses to the lights, dimming them, and Hardison turns towards her, wondering if it’s a signal for them to leave, but she has a couple of pillows blankets in her arms. “Stay as long as you want,” she says and steps out, closing the door behind her. 

Hardison looks back at the bed, where Eliot has finally given into the sleep he so desperately needs, and thinks _if it was up to me, I'd never leave._


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Parker is sprawled on the couch, feet resting on Hardison's lap as he types on his laptop, her nimble fingers working on a puzzle box. Eliot watches them fondly, glad beyond words that they've stayed, relieved that they haven't left him, because while they might drive him mad at times, he's pretty sure they're the only thing that's kept the cabin fever at bay for the last couple of days. Just having something  _ normal _ has helped more than anything, giving him something to ground himself against the memories that kept wanting to swamp him. The darkness in his soul can get no purchase against the light they bring into his life and he has no idea how he's worthy of that. Seven days isn’t his longest hospital stay, not by a long shot, but the forced downtime is really starting to grate on his nerves. 

The door opens and he twists his head, carefully, because while the concussion is getting better, moving too fast still makes his brain feel like the inside of a shaken snow globe, all whirling specks and crazy colours. He's made it the best part of a week without vomiting and he'd like to keep that record going for as long as he can. 

"Hi Eliot," Dr. Emory says and glances at the couch, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. 

"Hey Doc," he says and shifts so he's sitting a bit more upright. The chest tube moves with him, tugging on his side in a sickening way and he can't keep the wince off his face, flattening one hand over his chest, because every time he shifts, the damn thing feels like it’s going to pull his lung out between his ribs. He's pretty sure that isn't physically possible, but that doesn't stop the anxiety whenever the tube moves. 

"Mind if I take a look?" she asks, not bothering to ask if he wants Parker and Hardison to step outside. They've been through the conversion more than once and Eliot hasn't won yet. The pair of them have hardly left his side.

"Sure," he says, watching as she washes her hands and slips a pair of gloves on. The pain is at a tolerable level, finally, and he’s taking that as a good sign, because anything else is too depressing to bear.

Her hands are cool and gentle on his battered side as she peels the dressing back, checking the surgical wounds. The sutures blend with the nasty dark bruising that's only just starting to fade around the edges. “Looking good, believe it or not. The bruising will go soon enough.” She pulls the stethoscope from around her neck and listens to his chest, pleased not to hear anything alarming. His lungs sound clear, heart beating steadily. 

“How about the tube?” He licks his lips, made chapped by the dry air in the room. He's desperate to move more than the slow trips around the floor, go somewhere further than the bathroom. He's more than ready to go home and the chest tube is the only thing stopping him. 

She folds the dressings back into place and tidies the blankets. "Let me get you a scan and some xrays and we'll go from there. Everything looks good though." 

"Any idea how long that'll take, Doc?" he asks, swiping his hair back from his face with his good hand. 

"You that keen to leave us?" she asks and smiles wryly. "Couple of hours, probably, for the scans, then about the same to get the results. Removing the tube is usually pretty straightforward. If everything looks okay, you'll be home by this time tomorrow." 

He knows what she's saying is more than reasonable but it doesn't make him feel any less trapped. He's about ready to chew a limb off, like a wolf caught in a trap and he has to force the smile, knowing it's not even close to reaching his eyes. "Thanks, Doc," he says, and can hear the disappointment in his own voice. 

"I'll get you home as quickly as I can," she says and adds a few notes to his chart, nodding at Parker and Hardison before she slips out of the door. 

“Want me to phone Nate?” Hardison asks, dropping one hand to rest on Parker’s calf. She smiles at him, prodding him with her other foot. 

Eliot shakes his head, regretting it when a parade of stars wash across his eyes. “No, let’s see what she says first.” He frowns, scratching his broken arm irritably. He’s bored and he’s hurting and that’s never a good combination. If he was at home, he’d at least be able to entertain himself in the kitchen, or sack out on the couch, listening to his favorite music, but there’s not much chance of that in the hospital. 

Dr. Emory and Jess return, less than ten minutes later. “Scanner has a free slot now, if you’re ready to go?” Jess asks, already detaching him from the wall monitors. 

“Fuck, yes,” he says, “Let’s go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe not the best chapter, but I'm honestly feeling a little stuck with this story and just needed to get something down. I know the ending now and it's going to be so damn good so just bear with me. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. :)


End file.
